


Bird of Paradise

by 7r33h0u53r3fu633



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Shaving, Creampie, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degrading Language, Facial Shaving, Forced Feminization, Forced Oral, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, forced blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 03:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7r33h0u53r3fu633/pseuds/7r33h0u53r3fu633
Summary: Steve has  been captured  by Hydra. Things go unpleasantly.





	Bird of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing MCU, hope you like it!

Steve Rogers sat in a prison cell in a pair of silk stockings, and he tried to remember his mother's thoughts on wearing them. Sara Rogers wasn't really one for the fripperies in life - her biggest indulgence had been a bottle of perfume she had hoarded like a dragon, dabbing a few drops on the insides of her wrists or the sides of her neck on special occasions. When he'd been very young, he'd sat in her lap while she did it, and she'd let him take a deep snuff of it, the sweetness swirling around his head like so much mist.

Three months after he had come off the ice, he had caught a whiff of it while standing on a crowded bus, and he had nearly burst out crying. 

But now he was sitting in a prison cell in silk stockings. They were fancier than he'd ever seen, a deep blue. It wasn't the same blue of his shield, thankfully. That might have been... tacky. The dress they had hanging outside of the cell was red - pink probably would have worked better, for whatever thing they were going for.

It really was amazing, the he could keep himself so detached from all of this. He was just here, critiquing their fashion choices. Maybe it was because it felt like such a petty way to humiliate him? Oh no, here was the fabled Captain America, let's dress him up in pretty and parade him around. When whatever it was that they'd injected him with wore off (and it _would_ wear off - he'd felt the beginnings of his strength coming back, right before another sting of a needle in the side of his neck), he'd break out. Natasha and Sam were also going to find him - he knew they would, knew it in the very depths of his soul. 

The serum they'd injected him with left him faintly dizzy, and not very strong - they were probably leaving him with the stockings because they weren't even worried about him garroting anyone with them, which was a bit of a blow to the ego, but maybe he could lull them into a false sense of security? The last few times someone had come in to give him food, he'd staggered upright in an attempt to show that he was still someone to be reckoned with. The last time, the guy delivering him his dinner (oatmeal, which wasn't exactly... _good_ , but it was better than a whole lot of alternatives), had thrown the silk stockings at him, pointed a gun at him, and told him to put them on.

He'd put them on, and then he'd leaned heavily against the wall as the room spun around him, and the guy bringing him the oatmeal had leered at him, eyes raking across Steve's legs. Steve had to admit, he probably looked... kind of dumb, wearing boxers, stockings, and a white tank top that had been under his uniform, but... eh. He wasn't cold, and that was the important part. At least he wasn't naked. 

He sat on his thin prison mattress, and he tried to remember the scents that made up his mother's perfume. He'd gone to the Botanic Gardens with Bucky a few times - it had free days, and Bucky always claimed that being around all that green was good for his asthma. Steve had stood in a greenhouse, surrounded by exotic flowers, and tried to see if he could find something familiar. He hadn't any luck, but the memory was still a sweet one. If he kept his eyes closed, he could recall it almost perfectly - the sun beating down, the living humidity, the smells of the flowers, the mulch, the steam. There had been a vibrant orange flower, with some blue... bits (Steve liked flowers, he didn't know much about them) shaped like a bird. The blue had been the same blue as the stockings, come to think of it. 

It was a thing he'd learned to do in the old days; find a thing to think about that wasn't the terror that he'd be stuck here, that he was at the mercy of a bunch of sadistic madmen who'd aligned themselves with the foulest ideology known to humanity. There was nothing he could do just now - he'd gone over his options, and found them wanting. He was weak from whatever they'd given him, and the various escape routes were a no go. If he cooperated... well, he didn't really know what they'd do to him if he cooperated, but he sure as shit knew what they'd do to him if he _didn't_ cooperate. As long as they didn't make him hurt another person, he'd go along with... whatever. In the meantime, well... he had to stay distracted. So he tried to remember things. He'd named every title on his mother's bookshelf, then every kid in his first grade class once. He had picked apart his mother's recipes, or recalled all the bits of different skipping rhymes.

The flowers were a screaming bright orange and blue, and the shape of the petals was like those swallow tattoos he'd seen on sparrows, swooping down towards him. They had bobbed a bit in the breeze - there had been massive fans, to keep the air circulating. It had been early fall when they'd gone, and he'd been wearing a sweater, which he'd sweat through in a matter of minutes. He hadn't noticed at the time, too taken in by the bright colors and the sweet scents. 

And then the door to his cell banged open, jolting him out of his recall, and he opened his eyes, looking up into the face of the man who had been bringing him his food. "Captain America," the man said, and he had a jovial, friendly face. It was like a friendly handshake and a slap on the back.

Steve didn't say anything, just nodded at the man, acknowledging that there was indeed a human being standing in front of him. What was he going to say, anyway? _So you’re a grunt in a genocidal terrorist organization - how’s that working out for you?_

“So,” the man said, and he was stepping into the cell, taking up space. There wasn’t a lot of space to be taken up in the first place, and the man’s knees were pressed up against Steve’s. 

“Yes?” Steve looked up at him. He didn’t stand up - didn’t want to totter anymore, and besides, why show that respect? 

“We’re gonna get you all cleaned up,” said the man, and he grabbed Steve by the arm, pulling him upright. 

Steve listed, leaning heavily into the man in spite of himself, and he fought back the urge to grab hold of the man’s shirt for balance. He’d rather fall on his ass then be any closer to the guy than he had to. “That’s awfully nice of you,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

“Let’s get you out of those, first,” said the man, and he was kneeling down in front of Steve, his fingers hooking in the waistband of the stockings, beginning to pull them down. He took Steve’s boxers down with them. Steve’s cock flopped out, soft and pink in the dim light of the cell. It was just cold enough that it was shrinking, just a bit. The man’s breath was hot and ticklish across the skin, and Steve was loath to admit it, but he was already beginning to get a little hard from it, his cock twitching. 

“Not as big as I thought it’d be,” the man said, and he’d paused his pulling the stockings down, leaving Steve hobbled. As if he wasn’t already dizzy. 

Steven didn’t comment - how did you respond to that, anyway? _Sorry, it’s cold_ or maybe _I mean, you’re holding my captive, so what are you expecting?_ A long time ago, he’d found that people were more unsettled by silence than anything he’d ever say. 

The man frowned up at Steve, and his hands were digging into Steve’s hips. Steve was already getting dizzy, and he tried to remember the exact name of the orange and blue flower as the man’s lips grew closer to his cock. Had it been some kind of sparrow? Swallow? 

Steve couldn’t keep himself from shuddering when the man’s lips parted, and his cock was in the man’s mouth. It wasn’t… erotic, per se, but it was hot and wet. The last time he’d gotten a blowjob, it had been Sam, looking up at him and grinning, making some joke - what was the joke? It had been a few weeks since then, what with one thing and another, and Steve _ached_ to remember it - he wanted to count Sam’s eyelashes, and memorize the lines on Sam’s face.

The man who was sucking Steve’s cock wasn’t very good at it. His teeth kept getting in the way, and his tongue was stiff, but also, somehow, floppy - like a dead fish.

Weren’t there fish that would eat other fishes tongues, and then act as the fish’s tongue? 

Steve was trying to think of things that weren’t sexy, because he was getting harder in spite of himself. He didn’t want it - who wanted to get hard in the mouth of a greasy haired stranger with bad breath, let alone a greasy haired Hydra agent? But it was happening. It wasn’t the first time the Hydra people had molested him in some way - usually it was a grope here, a grab here. He’d heard of enemies trying to get him to be ashamed of his body doing things, but… well, it was his body. He couldn’t help an erection any more than he could help a sneeze.

At least, he tried to tell himself that. The shame was already starting to coil in his gut like a snake, chewing on him. He bit his lip, and the Hydra agent looked up at him and smirked, leaning back and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Y’like that, huh?” The man wrapped his fist around Steve’s cock, pumping it, his thumb passing over the head, collecting more pre-come. 

_He’s got calluses on his hands from his gun,_ thought Steve. _Probably a sniper, or maybe infantry._

It was easier to think of it like that, instead of the fact that he was being jerked off by some stranger in the bowels of a terrorist organization’s fortress. Being jerked off by someone who he found abhorrent, who he hated abjectly for being here. It wasn’t the best sensation - far from it - but neither was the handjob, so it all balanced out. If only Steve’s cock would get with the picture, and stop reacting to the stimulation. 

“You do like it,” said the man, and he looked very pleased with himself. “Captain America, getting off to… well.” The man smirked, and then let go of Steve’s cock, pulling the stockings all the way off, lifting Steve’s ankle up to pull the stockings off of one foot, then the next, leaving Steve in just the tank top. “C’mon. We’re taking you to the shower.”

_He wants me to ask for clothing,_ thought Steve. _He wants me to protest and demand that I be less naked._ He didn’t say anything, just met the man’s eyes. 

The man scowled, and he indicated Steve’s shirt. “Take it off.” 

Steve didn’t argue, just pulled his shirt up and off, nearly falling over in the process. He made a big show of folding up his shirt and putting it on the bed. Then he was being grabbed by the shoulder and led out of the cell. He was naked and barefoot, with a hard on, and there were Hydra agents watching as he made his way down the windowless hallway. 

_There are people who would pay good money for this kind of treatment,_ flashed through Steve’s mind, and he schooled his features carefully to keep from snickering. It always helped, to look at things like that. Or maybe he was just deluding himself - did it matter? What was that thing that he’d once heard Tony say? _If it’s stupid and it works, it’s not stupid._ Did it matter what he was doing, as long as he survived? 

He just... walked. The floor was made of concrete, and it was cold under his feet, but he'd felt colder. When he was a kid, getting up in the mornings and padding out of his warm bed, across the freezing cold floor, it had felt colder than this. It probably _hadn't_ been colder than this, but these things were all about perception, right?

The man had a hand on his shoulder, partially to keep him from running off, partially to keep him from falling over. At least, Steve assumed it was for keeping him from falling over. For all he knew, the guy would refuse to help him up and just leave him flat on the floor for all the Hydra agents to gape at. 

Steve could live with gaping. If they tried anything _else_ , it would be a problem, but gaping? Whatever.

* * * 

Steve was shoved under an industrial shower, and he was scrubbed. 

It wasn't a particularly nice scrubbing - he'd had a few erotic baths in his time, a few loving ones. This wasn't one of them. He was reminded of seeing ships getting barnacles scraped off - vigorous, hard movements with a rough brush, which left his skin tingling and sore, abraded. Then he was bent over, and he had his ass washed as well, fingers covered in a washcloth probing inside of him. 

He was probably supposed to freak out - to scream or cry or show any sign of displeasure. But he just... took it. He tried to remember the exact ingredients to the one fudge that Sam always made when he was nervous, as the rough washcloth slid in and out of him, leaving him scraped bare. He was still off in the land of fudge when he saw the razor in the man's hand, and _that_ got a reaction out of him. 

It was possibly the right reaction, honestly - the man saw Steve's eyes widen, and his grin went nasty, but less... hard. "What are you so afraid of, Captain America? You think I'm gonna ruin that gorgeous face?" 

Steve shrugged. "I've had worse waved in my face," he said, which was true. 

There was always worse.

"I'm just going to make you prettier," said the man, and he shoved Steve into a bunch next to the shower, leaning forward and beginning to scrape the razor along Steve's face.

Steve tried not to wince - the razor was going against the grain, scraping him raw. It was... more than a little bit uncomfortable, but he could live with it. There were a lot of things he could live with, when it got down to it. 

"See, the boys and I," said the man, as he concentrated on shaving off Steve's beard, "we've been awfully lonely around here. There aren't many _ladies_ on this outpost, if ya get the picture."

Steve's stomach was starting to sink, although he kept his face as flat as possible. 

"So," said the man, "when a pretty little flower such as yourself shows up, _well_...."

Steve still didn't say anything. _They're trying to intimidate me._ He didn't want to admit that it was working, just a bit. Fear was beginning to churn in his stomach, although he was doing his best to ignore it. He'd experienced worse. He had experienced worse than whatever it was that these jumped up bullies on power trips were planning to subject him to.

But... well, just because he _had_ experienced worse didn't mean he wanted to see how much worse it could get. His heart was very loud in his ears, and his tongue was very thick in his mouth. He could endure this - he could endure anything, at the end of the world. But fear was beginning to crawl up his back, digging its little claws into his spine.

_When this is over, I'm going to take the longest, hottest bath I can find,_ thought Steve, as the razor scraped over his jaw, leaving his face smooth, if faintly tender. This man didn't shave him very nicely. 

When Steve had been a child, medicine cabinets had little slots in them to push in razor blades. This razorblade was a lot different - he hated to admit it, but he was still sometimes tripped up by the differences in shaving these days. He hadn't been shaving much, when he'd gotten the serum, but... still. 

The razor scraped across his upper lip, taking the hair with it, and Steve stared straight in front of him, reminiscing and desperately trying not to think about his current situation. 

"So," the man said, and he was almost done now, "we're gonna dress you up, nice and pretty, and you're gonna put on a little show for us. That's what you used to do back in the army, ain't it?" The man laughed, but his hand stayed steady, as he moved down to shave along Steve's neck.

Steven didn't say anything. He stared straight ahead.

The man made an annoyed noise, but he didn't cut Steve. He just kept shaving. 

* * * 

Steven ended up almost completely shaved. 

They took the hair off of his armpits, his legs, even around his groin. He wasn't particularly _fond_ of being so hairless, but if all they wanted to do was humiliate him by parading him around in a dress without any body hair... well, he could live with that. He wasn't particularly fond of the way the man kept groping him back into full hardness, but... well, you couldn't have everything in life. Let alone when stuck amongst Hydra. 

When he was led back to his cell, there were wolf whistles from surrounded agents. Steve bit back the urge to roll his eyes, just walking, staring resolutely ahead. This was... annoying, to be sure, but livable. It was all livable. 

Anything was livable, as long as you lived through it. By Steve's standards, this wasn't too bad, right? At least he wasn't going to need to be defrosted after all of this.

... Steve knew that was a total lie, but putting on some flavor of bravado inside of his head made the anxiety better. It shut up that small bit of him that was still screaming, even though he'd told that same bit of him multiple times that screaming wasn't actually going to _do_ anything, so why be unproductive? 

In his cell, he was told to put the stockings on again, with a pair of white high heels this time. He wasn't given any underwear, which was… unfortunate, but he could live with it. The silk stockings wouldn't be too bad against him. Although he had almost no experience when it came to walking in heels, especially when he was still staggering around from whatever drug they'd given him. 

_Nat would probably find this hilarious,_ he thought as he stood passively and let the man zip his dress up. _She’s been on my ass about how Thor can walk in heels and I can't._ Admittedly, there were a lot of things that Thor could do that Steve couldn't. 

“Aren't you pretty,” said the man, and he was smirking up at Steve. He had a good face for smirk - it sat on top like the scum on a pond. 

Steve just looked at him. 

“Well,” said the man, “we just need the final touch….”

* * *

The makeup was put on delicately. Surprisingly delicately - in another life, this man might have been an artist. Hell, he could have been an artist in _this_ life, if he hadn't decided to join up with Hydra. 

It was on the tip of Steve's tongue to ask that - _why join Hydra, why make this your life?_ \- but no. If this guy wanted out, Steve would help him get out. Steve wasn't going to reach his hand out to someone unreceptive. 

The makeup done - lipstick and mascara - Steve was half guided, half towed town the corridors. 

“We haven't seen a pretty lady like you around here in awhile,” said the man, as Steve was brought into a windowless, echoing room with a high ceiling. It was full of people in uniforms talking amongst themselves, and it was the kind of loud you only got when there were a whole bunch of people being a reasonable volume in a big place. 

Steve wanted to cover his ears and close his eyes, wanted to punch every smug face until his fists were bleeding, wanted to run out of here like the hounds of Hell were at his heels. He settled for looking around him coolly, making eye contact occasionally. He wasn't even blushing. What did he have to be embarrassed about? They were the ones who were doing this to him, he hadn’t thought it up of his own free will

Although that was one thing that made the whole thing so… galling. He didn’t actually find wearing women’s clothing to be an embarrassing thing, in and of itself. It was just clothing. He’d worn panties or a dress for lovers in the past, and it had just been a… thing. Some people liked uniforms, some people like dresses. Steve himself was cheerfully indifferent, but the way they were all treating it made him feel faintly… dirty. He shouldn’t have been feeling dirty - shouldn’t have _let_ them make him feel dirty, because at the end of the day, it was just a dress. Just a piece of fabric, some makeup, silk stockings, a pair of heels. It was all just clothing.

Maybe it was the way they were looking at him - eyes sweeping up and down, like they wanted to eat him alive, as if he was something to be consumed. Eyes lingered on the places where the dress bunched up over his chest, the tightness at his hips, the lace along the hem. He was just being walked up and down by various tables, and there was catcalling and wolf whistles, but otherwise he was left alone. Maybe they were just trying to demoralize him or something, although he wasn’t going to complain too much - it was nice to get some exercise, and to get out of the stuffy cell. The air here smelled a little better, even crowded with bodies like this, and some small part of his mind was meticulously taking notes for his eventual escape. 

A hand reached out, grabbing him by the thigh, and he looked down at it, then into the face of the man who had done it. He was nondescript - so many of the Hydra agents were men who could get lost in a crowd, it seemed - but he was leering. “Show us your tits, baby,” he said, and he was smirking.

Steve just looked at him, impassive.

“You heard the guy,” said the man who had brought Steve up. “Show us your tits!”

Steve didn’t move.

“Hey McGrady,” said the man whose hand was still on Steve’s thigh, “I thinks she’s shy.”

“We don’t have time for shy girls around here,” said the man - McGrady - and he pulled Steve against him, so that his front was pressed against Steve’s front. His crotch was grinding against Steve’s ass, and his hands were rough as they shoved down the front of the dress, showing Steve’s pectorals and nipples to the dining hall.

There was a whoop, and the man holding on to Steve’s thigh moved his hand up, to pinch Steve’s nipple. “Those are some grade A tits,” he told McGrady. “But you know what’d make ‘em look even better?” He was still leering at Steve. 

Steve desperately wanted to punch his face in.

“What would that be?” McGrady sounded like he was about to start laughing, too.

“If they had my come on ‘em!” The man threw his head back and laughed, a hearty, everyone-join-in laugh.

A bunch of people did join in, and they laughed even harder when Steve was forced down on his knees. The stockings would be ripped, which was a pity - they seemed like nice stockings. It wasn’t their fault they’d been bought by a bunch of… well, these people. 

“Well, sweetie?” There was a hand on top of his head now, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up into the face of the man in front of him, “aren’t you gonna take it out?”

Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t shout when his face was slapped, didn’t cry out when he tasted the blood from his nose. He just kept looking up at the man.

“I don’t think she’s realized she’s a slut yet,” said McGrady, his hands buried in Steve’s hair. “I think you’re gonna have to show her.”

“Oh,” said the man, and he was smirking as he unbuckled his pants, unzipped them. “I’m always up for teaching a slut to behave.”

_That is so fucking cliche,_ thought Steve, and then his nose was being pinched shut, and his mouth was being forced open.

* * *

Steve Rogers had sucked a decent amount of cock in his life - he’d had a few buddies growing up who he’d fooled around with when puberty hit, there’d been him and Bucky… well, pretty much since they’d met. There was Sam. 

This wasn’t sucking cock. It was nothing like sucking cock, because Steve wasn’t actually doing anything. As far as Steve was concerned, a good blowjob was like dancing; all participants were into it, there was a rhythm, and everyone came out of it feeling satisfied, if sweaty. This… was just a dick in his mouth. A dick in his mouth, and then a dick in his throat, forcing its way in and out, smearing lipstick across the shaft. The pre-come was salty when it was on his on his tongue, and his drool was slimy when it spilled over his chin.

He was just there, recording things that were happening. He was reminded, inexplicably, of when he’d first had the serum. There had been all of those men in white coats taking notes on clipboards. He had his own men in white coats taking notes in clipboards now, in the back of his head, and there was something faintly funny about that. Although maybe he was overthinking it.

He was probably overthinking it.

The man whose cock was in his mouth was thrusting his hips faster, mashing Steve’s nose against his belly, and it was a hairy belly - the hair was ticklish, and Steve wrinkled his nose, keeping his jaw relaxed. He could, in theory, bite down right now, and cause the man a great deal of pain. But there were a lot of other men, and he was still woozy from the drug, although some of that might have just been the way he was low on air, what with the dick in his mouth.

Correction - the dick in his throat. 

There was a dick in his throat, and he was dutifully gagging around it, although his mind was a million miles away at that point. It was just a thing that was happening a little to the left of him - he could practically see himself, clinically. There was his lipstick, all smeared up. He could taste the waxiness of it. And then there must have been tears tracking down his face, because it was wet now - the mascara would have to be pretty messed up too, come to think of it. These men didn’t seem like the type who’d care about waterproof mascara. Or maybe they’d like the sight of all those tears, dark with makeup as they stained his cheeks.

The cock in his mouth was beginning to pulse, and then his head was being pulled back by another pair of hands, forcing it back, and there was wetness dripping across his cheeks, down onto his chest. There was a lingering sour aftertaste on his tongue, and he wrinkled his nose at it, which just brought on more laughs.

“You were right,” said McGrady. “Totally looks better with come on her tits. Completes the slut look.”

“You know how to tell if a bitch is really a slut?” Another nondescript white guy was sitting next to the guy with his dick out, and he had lank, greasy hair and an unsettling gleam in the back of his eye. “You see if she’s wet after giving head. Best sign.”

“You’re right,” said McGrady, and he yanked Steve up, awkwardly, and shoved him forward, so that Steve was sprawled belly first over the table, his ass in the air. “Let’s see how wet this pussy is, huh?”

At least Steve hadn’t gone face first into some mystery meat - that would have just been gross. 

The fact that he was relieved not to have to interact with cafeteria meatloaf while he had a stranger’s semen drying on his face struck him as hilarious, and the part of him that was watching to the left was cracking up. The Steve Rogers in his own body just stayed there, impassive, as the skirt was pulled up and flipped over, revealing his stocking covered ass to the whole cafeteria. Then there was a ripping sound, and cool air on his cheeks. 

_Oh well. They were nice stockings._

Steve was surprised at how calm he was. Sure, he’d been trained to deal with torture, trained to endure who knew what horrors. But here were a bunch of Hydra agents, staring at his ass, holding him open and probing his hole with rough fingers, and he was just… lying here, letting it happen. He wasn’t panicking. Look at how calm he was, lying here, not panicking. He’d have to commend himself for that later, for how calm he was as a finger was shoved into his ass, up to the knuckle.

He was aware, tangentially, that there were tears dripping down his face. He must have washed off most of the mascara, at least. Then there was a wet sound, and something warm and liquid was hitting his hole. 

“This bitch is wet,” said some random man, and Steve didn’t know who it was. Didn’t particularly care. He was grateful that the super soldier serum kept him relatively hardy, even if he wasn’t at full strength right now. He had a feeling he’d need the healing.

Still so clinical, though. It was all taking on a slightly clinical cast, even as he was spread open for everyone to see. They were all watching his hole - he could feel their stares, like insects crawling all over his skin, and it was… unpleasant, to say the least, but it was happening, and what could he do about it?

Well, in theory, he could fight back, but how? 

He let the scenarios play out in his head, as another finger was jammed into him, and there were more jokes made, about how loose his pussy was, about what a slut he was. Typical Hydra - couldn’t even do their insults in an interesting way, could they? 

He was gibbering inside of his head, gibbering like that one writer he’d liked to read, Lovecraft. It was a pretty impressive gibber, all things considered, although he wasn’t sure why he was gibbering in the first place. He was calm. Completely calm. 

He was still calm when the first cock was pushed into him, accompanied by cheers and clapping. He was barely aware what was happening - one minute, he was trying to name all the short stories in the Lovecraft book he’d read when he was still in Brooklyn as a teenager, the next, something blunt and hot was nudging its way into his hole, and shoving in. it was… it was full, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant, but it was a thing that was happening. 

He was aware, tangentially, that the table was being shaken as he was fucked. He was also aware that someone had their hand in his hair, and was pulling him forward. Then his nose was being pinched shut again, and he was opening his mouth, almost absent mindedly. This was just a thing that was happening. It didn’t matter.

There was another cock in his mouth, and this one was bigger than the last one. It was disgusting, to be sure, but he’d probably done worse. The cock in his ass was speeding up, and there were hands on his chest, pinching his nipples, then moving lower, to fondle his cock. At least he wasn’t too hard. That would add insult to injury.

“See,” said McGrady, and oh hey, that must have been the cock in Steve’s mouth, “this is what happens to stupid sluts like you. They get fucked!” McGrady shoved his cock down Steve’s throat, and Steve missed his gag reflex. He would have liked to throw up on the guy, if only out of spite.

He was amazed at the wells of spite he was accessing right now, as the cock inside of him pulsed, and then he was being shot full of heat, sticky and trailing down his leg as the cock was withdrawn, only for another one to take its place.

This person was pressing closer to him, their groin covered in thick, curly hair, and it was rough against his ass, which was already on its way to tender. This cock was longer, narrower, and it seemed to go deeper. Steve frowned, grunting as he was fucked into the table, and the man who was fucking him moaned like he was being paid for it, bringing laughter out from amongst the onlookers.

Steven just… went back into his own head. He remembered the scents of those flowers, as salty come was discharged onto his tongue, and another cock replaced that one. The orange of them had been vibrant, the blue almost screaming.

The cock in his ass had pulled out, and there was more wetness, stickiness, across the backs of his thighs.

What had the name been? Bird of Eden?

Come on his face, caking over his eyelashes, a wet cock head smearing across his face and leaking him musky and sticky. 

Garden Bird?

No, that wasn’t it.

Another cock in his ass, thicker than the last one, and the owner of it was fucking into him like a dog on a bitch, hard, rapid thrusts of his hips.

Bird of paradise! That’s what it had been, bird of paradise. 

There was a resounding _boom_ from overhead, and then sunlight streaming in, blinding Steve.

He couldn’t look up - not with his neck at this angle, being held down by a heavy hand between his shoulder blades as he was plowed like a field - but he was pretty sure that he heard the familiar sound of Sam’s wings.

Some small part of him was already tired at the thought of having to process… well, all of this.

But he’d worry about that now.

He held the memory of the flower in his mind, and he looked up into the face of the man raping his mouth. And he bit down.


End file.
